Gaslight
by Ericka Jane
Summary: The papers were calling it arson or an accident, at best. They checked it out anyways because that's what hunters do. Big mistake. Hurt!Freaked!Sam and minor Hurt!Dean
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Long story short, this is a re-telling of a recent nightmare that I had. No joke, it scared the living hell out of me. Anyways, this takes place in season one because I miss the good ole' days, damn it.

Warnings:_ Slightly_ disturbing content, minor hurt!freaked!Sam and hurt!Dean, language, minor violence, and bro mo (aka schmoop...I've been big on this lately.)

Disclaimer: Only in my dreams. And yes, there have been dreams…not _those_ kinds of dreams, perverts.

* * *

**Gaslight**

"It could be nothing."

"When is it ever 'nothing?'"

"Sometimes it's nothing," Dean smirks as he shoves another ketchup soaked fry into his mouth.

"Dean, we've checked out cases that didn't even have _victims _yet."

"Yeah," Dean replies around a mouth full of food, "But they all had the signs."

"And this doesn't?" Sam demands, glaring at his nonchalant sibling.

"No. This has a fire, in a backwoods cabin, in California, during fire season," Dean lists as he shrugs, "Sounds pretty normal, dude."

Sam sighs morosely and stabs his salad, "We always check out fires."

Dean freezes, glancing up at Sam as another fry hovers in front of his lips. Sometimes, when things between him and Sam feel normal and easy, he forgets about Palo Alto. He forgets that Sam had just re-lived the Winchesters' worst nightmare four months ago. Another woman on the ceiling, burnt alive. Another Winchester man destroyed. Sometimes he forgets until they pick a motel for the night, and Sam wakes up screaming Jessica's name. Then Dean remembers, and feels guilty about forgetting in the first place.

But Sam's right. For years after their mom died, they looked into every fire related incident that made the news. After Sam left and dad put more pieces together, they stopped checking them all out and only paid attention to the relevant ones. Sam doesn't really know that, though. He was at Stanford.

Dean sighs. What's a little detour to Cali? They're not that far away, and as long as they stay clear of Palo Alto, there shouldn't be a problem.

"Alright, Sammy, let's hit the coast," Dean says as he shovels in three fries at a time.

Sam's face lights up, but he's also visibly hesitant, like he's waiting for Dean to slam the door in his face.

"Yeah?" Sam asks, testing the waters.

"Yeah," Dean repeats and then smirks, "And when this turns out to be_ nothing_, we can check out the beach babes."

-0-

"The fire's still under investigation, so nothing's really concrete, but it looks like they're leaning towards arson or accidental explosion," Sam says as scans over the newspaper article, "Derek Ellsworth is the only victim. He was fifteen."

A tense silence fills the Impala. Cases with kids are the worst. The fact that it's a kid and a fire makes it unforgivable. Suddenly Dean hopes the fire was caused by something that he can gank, because anything else won't be justified in his opinion.

"Witnesses?" Dean finally asks, breaking the silence, pushing the moment behind them.

Sam shakes his head, "None. Some hikers saw the smoke and called it in. Cabin was destroyed by the time the rescue team showed up."

"Why are they thinking arson?"

"Paper says that a gas stove was the point of ignition, but the place was abandoned. It could've been some kids messing around, things went bad, and one of them got caught in it. Or it could've been some kind of freak accident. Or…"

"Or it could've been something nasty. You thinkin' spirit?" Dean finishes, glancing over at Sam.

Sam shrugs, "Maybe."

"Guess we've got some digging to do."

-0-

They decide to hike to the cabin first to check out the evidence, and ask questions later. Dean figures there's not much use in conducting interviews if they don't even know if this is their kind of gig or not.

"How far in is it?" Dean asks as he pushes the trunk lid open on the Impala.

"A mile, maybe two," Sam replies as he scans the looming forest.

The trees look infinite, stretching to the sky, skewering the horizon line, blocking out the sun. The vastness makes Sam feel small, which is no easy feat.

"'s quiet out there," Dean comments as he peeks over the trunk lid, his eyes squinting in suspicion.

Sam cocks his head, frowning as he realizes Dean's right. The forest obviously runs for miles, but he can't hear anything. No birds, no insects, nothing scampering in the near distance. There's nothing but looming trees, tangled foliage in the shade, and a huge, dead silence.

"Comforting," Dean grumbles as he slams the lid shut, temporarily disturbing the stillness. It still makes Sam jump a little.

Dean shoves their large canteen into Sam's hands, "Here, man the water, Samantha."

The shotgun hangs in Dean's good shooting hand, and Sam can see the EMF detector in his brother's back pocket. He also knows that Dean's aware of the Taurus tucked in Sam's jeans, and the knife strapped to his ankle, hence him forcing the water canteen into Sam's hand rather than a weapon.

Sam snatches the canteen, "Jerk."

"Bitch."

-0-

They hike maybe thirty minutes before they smell lingering smoke wafting through the air.

"Guess we're close," Sam mutters from behind Dean as they make their way down the narrow, dirt path.

"You're telling me. Smells like a Yogi Bear Camp Ground over here," Dean observes, flicking a tree branch out of his way. Sam dodges it as it flings back, and glares at Dean's head.

The path is tiny, small enough that the brothers have to shuffle and twist through it to avoid the random thorny bushes, and sharp protrusions from the trees. It smells like pure earth, like dirt, rain, and leaves. If it weren't for the near claustrophobic feeling, the scent of smoke getting stronger, and the silence that nature still hasn't broken, it'd almost be a nice place. Peaceful.

Dean stops suddenly and Sam barely manages to keep from bulldozing his brother right over. He huffs in annoyance but refrains from saying anything as he catches sight of the bright yellow 'Crime Scene' tape in front of them.

What was once a cabin is now nothing more than a pile of ash inside a giant, coal colored square. The fire destroyed everything except the foundation, the brick fireplace, and the iron stove. A few pieces of the walls are still standing, but they look so brittle and frail that Sam doubts it'd take much to make them crumble.

In front of him, Dean is jittery and vibrating with angry tension. Sam understands; he can feel his own spine prickling with bad memories, can even feel sweat start to bead against his hairline.

"C'mon," Sam says gently, breaking the silence as he shifts, hoping to snap Dean out of it.

Dean doesn't say anything, but grunts in agreement, and stalks forward. They duck the yellow tape and slowly work their way around the perimeter of the cabin ruins, searching for any clue.

"Anything?" Sam asks from one side of the cabin, his eyes on the ground as he sifts through the ash and dirt with his boot.

"Nada," Dean replies, as he sweeps the area with the EMF detector, "If something of our pay grade is behind this, it isn't a spirit."

Sam nods as he tentatively steps on to the charred foundation. A glance back tells him that Dean has one eye on the area around the foundation, and one eye on Sam. Sam smirks, knowing that Dean is both looking for clues and watching his every move in case the wood gives.

His big brother, ever the multi-tasker.

Sam goes back to work. The EMF ruled out a spirit, so next on the list is demons. He starts looking for traces of sulfur, even though he knows that the chances of it surviving the fire are slim to none. He sighs, slowly making his way over to the oven. The report named it as the ignition point, so it seems like a logical place to start looking for 'signs,' as Dean calls them.

The oven was probably dark in color to begin with but now it's practically a black hole. Its features are indistinguishable, twisted and deformed by the heat of the fire. Even so, it's undeniably a stove, and it's giving Sam a creepy, foreboding vibe. He frowns deeply and runs a finger over the edge of it. His finger is black when he pulls away, but from what he can tell, nothing's abnormal about it.

He hears the snap of a tree branch right before he hears Dean's startled shout, followed by a sickening thud. Sam whips around fast, gun already drawn as he quickly scans the area. He doesn't notice him at first, but a fast second look has him seeing Dean sprawled on the ground, out for the count.

"Dean!" Sam shouts and half runs, half tip-toes across the foundation. Once he's in the clear, he leaps from the ruins, and sprints the short distance to his brother.

He's immediately at Dean's side, hands on his face as he takes in the closed eyes and the warm blood under his fingertips.

"Dean, hey man, come on," Sam urges as he searches for the spot that's causing the bleeding. He finds it about mid-skull; it's a cut, with a small lump to go with it.

Sam looks up, and half turns on his haunches as he tries to get a look at whatever got the drop on Dean. The clearing is empty, and is as silent as ever. Still no birds. Not even a damn squirrel.

"Dean, wake up," Sam tries as he turns his attention back to his sibling, "Come on, don't make me carry you down that tiny path."

No response, not even a twitch. Sam sighs and presses his fingers against Dean's throat, feeling for his pulse. Not too fast, too slow, or too faint; so nothing dire, Dean's just out.

It doesn't make sense. What could sneak up behind Dean - who's near impossible to sneak up on - knock him out, then disappear, all without making a sound? Without Sam noticing?

Sam frowns. But it wasn't without a sound; a branch snapped, which means whatever it was could be corporal. But there's no way to know if it was Dean who stepped on it or if it was the attacker. Sam sighs again. No time to worry about that now, he has to get Dean back to the Impala. He shifts his weight, assessing the situation, preparing to pick Dean up so he can start walking.

He doesn't hear the small shift behind him. He doesn't even know he isn't alone until pain explodes in his head, and everything goes dark.

-0-

Awareness filters in slowly like a tide, coming in and out, in and out, until Sam isn't even sure what's in his head and what's real. When he does break the surface of consciousness, he can immediately tell that he's restrained; with his arms over his head. His eyes still aren't quite cooperating, so he's not completely sure of the entire situation yet. He's sitting, but there's no back to whatever he's on, which gives his torso full movement. His ankles are restrained somehow as well. Sam's first thought is that he's on some sort of stool, and that the rope that's around his wrists is attached to something in the ceiling. Sam can only hope. A set up like that would give him a fair amount of leverage for escape.

He finally pries his eyes open, but the brightness of the room immediately makes them shut again. His head rolls backwards as pain spreads through his brain like cracks in glass. He takes a few deep breaths, knowing that he's going to have to push through it if he wants to get out of here. Unless Dean comes for him, which he usually…

Dean. Dean was knocked out cold the last time Sam saw him, and God, he hopes that's where he still is. Sam doesn't know where he is or what has him, but he doesn't want his brother caught up in it. He hopes that whatever grabbed him left Dean in the clearing with the burnt down cabin. At least that way, Sam knows he's ok, knows he's safe.

But that also means that Sam's on his own, which isn't a very reassuring thought right now.

Hesitantly, he opens his eyes again and much to his relief, the pain isn't nearly as bad as the first time. The relief is short lived, however, when he realizes where he is and what he's tied to.

He's in an abandoned cabin, and he's secured to the top of a large gas stove, with his arms tied to the ventilation system above it.

His brain clicks the facts together like puzzle pieces in no time flat, and it sends an immediate shiver of dread down his spine. The cabin, the fire, the one victim, the stove being the ignition point; it all makes sense now that he's in the position. It isn't a spirit, hell, it probably isn't even a demon, this has human written all over it. It has _serial killer_ written all over it, someone who apparently ties their victims to gas stoves and lights the fire.

Sam's chest starts to heave as fear spirals through his nerves, and he starts pulling on the ropes wrapped around his wrists. As he looks up to get a visual, he pauses, frowning. He's seen those knots before…

The echo of footsteps brings his attention forward, putting him on full defensive alert. Just as he had been taught, he squares his jaw, erases the fear from his face, and waits. The enemy rounds a corner and passes through an open doorway. As Sam suspected, it's just a man, no black eyes, no tell tale signs of possession. He looks to be about mid-forties, well structured, with silver eyes and hair. Dog tags rest against his dark blue tee shirt. Military. That explains the familiar knots, and why neither he nor Dean heard the guy sneak up on them. He's been trained.

"What do you want?" Sam demands, his chin high, eyes narrowed.

The man tilts his head, studies him, "There was a time when it was worshipped and not feared. Once, many would've considered it a gift to be in your position."

He walks closer and Sam tenses, trying to mentally prepare for anything that he's going to do. But he doesn't approach Sam, he brushes by him. Sam stares, watching the stranger's every move. The man leans down and picks up a plastic milk jug off the floor. As he straightens up, he untwists the cap. With him this close, Sam can see the name stamped into the dog tag: Gates.

"You shouldn't be afraid," Gates assures, "This is an honor."

Then, starting with Sam's left shoulder, he starts to pour the contents of the milk jug on him.

-0-

Dean groans, "Sonuvabitch."

His hand goes to his head and he winces as he makes contact with a lump, and comes away tacky with drying blood. Jesus, what the hell hit him? A steamroller? He sits up with a wince and then immediately folds over, his head cradled in his hands. Once the vibrations in his skull ease up, he lifts his head, and studies his surroundings. He frowns, confused. He's still in the forest. And Sam…

"Sammy?" Dean calls, ignoring his pain and vertigo as he pushes himself to his feet.

Dizziness threatens to take him right back down, but he manages to keep upright, "Sam!'

He steps and his foot connects with something hard. He looks down, moves his foot and feels a pit of dread fill in his gut. Sam's gun. Sam never would've left it lying here; staying armed at all times is in the Winchester rules.

"Goddamnit," Dean mutters and places his hands on his knees, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself down. Sammy's missing, obviously taken by something or someone, the same something or someone who knocked Dean out. And that something likes fire. God_damn_it.

Dean turns in a half circle, trying to steady his racing heart, and clear his brain enough to figure out what went wrong here. Dean has a feeling, he's had a feeling ever since they left Nevada. He told Sam this was probably nothing and now, with Sam gone and no visible signs of a ghoulie or ghostie, Dean's going upgrade that 'nothing' to 'human.'

Dean huffs. Humans are bad news. They're unpredictable, _crazy_, and worst of all, Dean can't kill them. More like won't kill them. Except maybe, this time there needs to be an exception because Sam's missing, Dean has a headache, and there's_ fire _involved.

Yeah, exceptions are good.

He snatches Sam's hand gun and the shotgun from the ground, and starts moving. As much as he loathes leaving, there isn't anything here to tell him where Sam is, and staying isn't going to get him any closer to figuring it out. He needs more info. Maybe hit up the locals and find out whom in town is missing a few screws, check the newspapers, look for other arson cases.

Dean's almost to the path when he catches sight of something, something that they missed the first time because it's hidden in some bushes, and not visible when you're walking into the clearing. It's a wooden sign, worn down by years of weather and time. The paint's almost completely gone, but the etchings are still perfectly intact.

**Harold H. Summer Camp**  
**Estd. 1954**

Dean blinks. Summer Camp. He looks back at the cabin and immediately the light bulb goes on. If this used to be a summer camp, then there's more cabins around here, probably close. Dean's willing to bet the Impala that Sam's in one of those other cabins.

He starts walking in the other direction, his movements full of purpose and determination, the whole time praying that Sam's ok.

-0-

The fumes are suffocating, burning Sam's airways, making his head too light and his eyes water. He can feel the oily liquid on his skin, raw and undiluted, and Sam just wants to get it off. Composure, training, and Winchester Toughness went out the window some time ago. His barely contained panic is beginning to bubble to the surface, spilling over, drowning out his dad's voice in the back of his mind that's telling him to pull it together. Sam struggles, pulls and twists, but the bonds around his wrists hold, even with the accelerant and blood acting as a lubricant. All he gets for his efforts are wounded wrists, which are burning from the kerosene and the twine pieces stuck in the lacerations.

The restraints around his ankles aren't giving either; Sam practically pulled a muscle trying to yank free. He's stuck, well and truly, and he's starting to understand that he's not getting out unless some gets him out.

Heavy boots clunking and scuffing against worn wood makes Sam pause and hold his breath. Gates is coming back. Seconds later, Gates emerges through the crumbling doorframe. He stands there motionless, starring at Sam with eyes that never seem to focus. Sam's heart pounds right up into his throat as he stares back. He wants to tug at his restraints some more, maybe loosen whatever the rope's attached to, but his fear isn't letting him move.

"It moves in waves," Gates finally says, feet moving sluggishly as he makes his way to the youngest Winchester, "Rolls like the ocean, but it has more power. Fire always has more power."

He's close now, too close. Sam can smell the grease in his hair and the rankness of his breath. He can see every detail in his face, can catalog every dirt and oil smudge on his shirt.

"So pretty, so much power," Gates coos as he drags a filthy finger down the side of Sam's neck. Sam flinches and jerks back as far as he can to get away from the unwelcome touch.

Gates pulls away slowly and rubs his fingers together, staring in awe as the kerosene shines between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. Sam finds it oddly reassuring that Gates is more interested in the oily substance on his skin, and not his actual _skin_. He doesn't think he could handle the guy being a pervert on top of everything else.

Nevertheless, Sam's normal 'fight' response dies, and 'flight' kicks in hard as he observes the pure insanity glowing in the stranger's orbs, "Let me go. Please. I swear, we won't tell the cops, we won't tell anyone. Just let me go. Please?"

Grey eyes shift towards him, but Sam knows they aren't really seeing him, they're seeing through him. Sam shivers as Gates' gaze sweeps over him slowly before landing on the stove.

"So pretty," He repeats as his hand reaches for the dull silver knobs of the stove, his eyes never leaving Sam's.

Sam knows what's coming and worse, he knows there's nothing he can do to stop it. He starts struggling in earnest, ignoring the pain in his arms as he pulls and pulls. Sam feels more than sees the hand connect with the knob, and a sob claws its way out of his chest, "No, don't! No!"

He hears the tiniest creak from the knob as it starts to turn, and Sam does the only thing he can think of.

"DEAN!"

* * *

A/N: I was planning on making this a oneshot but I was running out of steam, and I've been working on this for like three days lol. Hopefully I'll have the conclusion up soon. Any and all feedback is welcome, help a girl out :)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: *Facepalm* Laaaattee. I'm so sorry this is late, especially since I promised so many of you that it wouldn't take long to update. My chapter fic sucked out all of my creative energy. Plus I have a slave driver (*cough*he's a cop*cough*) for a professor, so I had to focus on stupid homework crap too. Forgive me and shower me in reviews? Lol. Just kidding, no need for that. It would be nice though…

Warnings: Language, freaked out Sam, and **unrealistic bro mos** that we're never going to see on t.v. Damn writers. Petition, anyone?

* * *

**Gaslight  
2.**

Dean growls as a thorny branch catches on the skin high on his cheekbone. He feels blood bead along the shallow cut and he swipes at it, smearing the red into his flesh. The pain of the cut barely registers beyond a sting as the insistent _find Sam now _feeling tightens in his gut, and numbs all the outside hurts. He's been trekking along the narrow path for about ten minutes with no end in sight, his head is pounding, and he's getting pissed. More than that, he's worried, and scared, and all those other things that he hates being when Sam's concerned. He just wants to beat down the guy who kidnapped his brother, and then grab said brother and haul ass. If only the damn path would _end_.

He shoves another overgrown shrub out of his way with a sneer and then comes face to face with a new summer camp sign, complete with an arrow pointing straight ahead. Thank hell. He continues down the path, steamrolling through vegetation with the determination and fury of a bull. When he finally sees the end of the path, Dean literally sags with relief. The end flares out into a huge bubble in the forest, with five, vine-covered cabins stand in the round clearing. It wouldn't take long to search all of them but he doesn't want to waste the time. The tight ball of energy at the base of his spine and the balloon of dread filling his chest is telling him that he doesn't have the time to check them all; he needs to find Sam_ now_.

He runs a hand furiously through his hair, and tries to look at it objectively. If he were a fire loving, murdering psycho, he'd want to keep his territory as safe as possible. Considering the wind and all of the dry wood around, a fire would spread fast in this place. Dean narrows his eyes at the cabins and speculates. One of them is further away from the others, a little bit more isolated. Dean figures if he were going to set one on fire, and he didn't want it to spread to the other cabins, that'd be a good one to start with.

Dean palms the gun that Sam had dropped earlier, staying alert as he quickly but quietly makes his way to the secluded cabin. He does a quick visual sweep of it, trying to decide what would be the most tactful way of busting in, when he hears it.

"No, don't. No! DEAN!"

Dean's heart rate skyrockets and tact immediately goes out the window, because judging by the pure panic and fear in Sam's voice, he needed be inside that cabin like yesterday. He kicks in the door with a single solid blow, and busts in, "Sam!"

Dean starts to patrol the cabin, gun in front of him as he makes his way through the small structure. It doesn't take long to find Sam.

When he enters the kitchen, Dean can't help but pause in horrified shock. He takes in the scene: Sam tied to a stove with tears running down his face, soaked in what smells suspiciously like kerosene. Then there's the guy responsible, who Dean's considering shooting on principal alone, because Christ, Sam is _crying_. The man's hand is on the knob of the stove, not tight enough to turn it, but he's tense enough that Dean knows that could change at any second. He's facing Dean, leaning slightly against the counter as he considers him curiously. Dean makes sure to keep his eyes on the enemy and not on Sam, who's squirming and pulling at the ropes around his arms, his breath occasionally hitching with pain or stress. If he pays attention to Sam, not only will he be distracted, he'd also almost most definitely kill the son of a bitch in front of him.

"Get away from my brother," Dean's expression is fierce, brows furrowed as he glares harshly at the man. He wants to make sure that there's no mistake in his intentions; if he doesn't step away from Sam now, Dean's not going to hesitate to put him down.

"It's an honor to be burned and cleansed of sin," he says, his fingers clenching and unclenching around the knob, "He's been chosen, you should be proud."

From behind the man, Sam feebly kicks as he continues to attempt escape, and Jesus, Dean doesn't think he's ever seen his brother so positively freaked out. Sam's raw fear awakens something in Dean's subconscious, something dangerous and impulsive.

"I'm only going to say it one more time before I start getting nasty," Dean warns darkly, "Back off."

"You'll see. You'll see when he's burning, all the sin that comes off him as he's being cleansed. It's an _honor_," The man insists and Dean sees his fingers tighten marginally on the knob, his wrist shifting to twist.

Dean doesn't even realize he's pulled the trigger until the bang echoes through the room, and the psycho goes down with his hand clutching his bleeding shoulder, yowling in pain. The surprise only lasts seconds however, before his anger takes back over again, and he stalks over to his fallen victim. Dean stands over him, pleased to see some hesitant fear in the man's icy eyes, before he whips back his gun and brings the handle down on his temple. He drops to the floor, out cold. It's only then Dean notices the silver dog tags resting against his chest, spackled with blood. Gates.

A whimper from behind him shifts all the anger inside him to concern in under a second.

Dean steps over Gates, "Hold on, Sammy."

"Dean, get me out, _please_ get me out," Sam pleads as he continues to struggle against the ropes.

Dean can't remember the last time Sam's fear outweighed his pride, and pushed him to the brink of hysterics. Before junior high? After that time Dean was nearly killed by a werewolf? He can't remember. It yanks at his big brother strings like nothing has since Palo Alto, and honestly, Dean's still considering putting a bullet in Gates' head.

"Easy, Sammy, I've gotcha. It'll only be a second, bro," Dean soothes as he grabs his knife from his ankle and starts sawing at the rope above Sam's hands. He makes sure to keep his hip pressed against Sam's leg, an attempt to ground his brother. But Sam's still squirming, still desperately trying to get free.

"Stop wiggling, dude."

Sam stills, though Dean can tell he still wants to freak out. He's just on this side of hyperventilating and his hands keep opening and clenching like he needs to do something with himself.

Finally, after what feels like way too long, Sam's wrists are free, and he immediately pulls them down into his chest. Pain shoots through his arms and wrists as blood starts re-circulating through his limbs. Sam curls his arms tightly to his chest, grabbing his shirt as he scrunches his eyes shut against the discomfort. His wrists are throbbing, angry at the abuse from the rope and the accelerant.

The second Dean frees Sam's ankles, Sam launches himself off the stove, moving so quickly and erratically that he nearly pushes Dean to the ground. In his haste, Sam also manages to trip over himself, making him stumble.

Dean immediately rights himself and grabs Sam by the arms, steadying him, preparing to pull him back up to his feet, "Sammy?"

"M'okay," he gasps, even though Dean can still hear tears and terror in his voice, and can feel Sam tremble under his hands.

"Right. Remind me to never bet on you in poker," Dean says as he gently hauls him up, wrapping his arm tight around Sam's waist while he slings one of Sam's arms over his neck, "C'mon, let's get out of here."

Sam nods but doesn't respond, as they turn around together to head for the exit. Sam freezes as he catches sight of Gates' unconscious, bleeding body. Dean feels his brother tense up against his side. He allows himself to glare at the man for one more second, a snarl gracing his lips. He wants to kill him. He wants him to hurt for threatening Sam with fucking fire, for terrifying the kid. But he doesn't, because after the shock wanes and Sam comes back to his headspace, he'd be upset about it. Plus he has more pressing matters to deal with, like helping Sam.

"Let's go, Sammy, it's ok," Dean murmurs and pushes against Sam's side, forcing him to move.

They make their way back to the Impala with little issue. Those goddamn pathways were the worst, forcing them to walk in line instead of side by side. Dean made sure that Sam was in front of him so that he could keep a hand on his shoulder or arm, a reassurance that he was still there, not going anywhere.

The glossy black paint of the Impala comes into view under the sunlight, a homing beacon if Dean had ever seen one, and relief hits him hard. A quick glance at Sam tells him that his brother is feeling it too, that distinct feeling of home and safety that nothing else but the car can give them. Dean clasps the back of Sam's neck gently and leads him over to the trunk.

"Dean, I just want to sleep," Sam protests weakly, sounding all of six years old again.

"I know man, trust me, I know. But you've got kerosene all over you and your wrists are mangled. Just…change clothes real quick and let me wrap your wrists, ok?" Dean asks as he ducks his head to catch Sam's eyes, which have mostly been on the ground the whole time.

Sam nods, and starts peeling off his oily clothes. Soon, Sam's in nothing but his socks and briefs, clothes piled by his feet. Dean bends down to retrieve them but Sam stops him.

"Leave it," Sam mutters, "They're ruined, anyways."

Dean makes sure there's nothing in Sam's jeans pockets before he buries the clothes in a shallow hole. Sam pulls on some spare clothes from the trunk and sits in the passenger seat as Dean pours water over his wrists, and wraps them in gauze.

"That'll hold until we get back to the motel. You hurt anywhere else?" Dean asks as he does a visual sweep over Sam, looking for anything he might've missed.

Sam's eyes are still cast down but he shakes his head, "Knocked me out, no concussion though."

Dean reaches forward anyways, looking for the lump and cut that would most likely match the one on the back of Dean's own head. Sam winces when Dean finds it with his fingers, small and hidden under all of Sam's hair.

He pulls back, squeezing Sam's shoulder instead, "Just a goose egg, nothing some Tylenol and ice won't fix."

Sam doesn't so much as answer as he does grunt, before swinging his legs inside, making it perfectly clear that he's ready to get the show on the road.

Dean relents, and hits the top of the Impala once with his palm, before getting in on the driver's side. Then he peels out of the gravel parking area and puts the forest in the rearview mirror.

* * *

A/N: One more chapter left, (most likely) in Sammy's POV. Thanks everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** *sigh* Same song, different dance. Sorry, everyone for the lateness. RL has been kickin my ass lately, and I'm ready to either A) seek professional help or B) hire a hitman. You know how it goes. On a lighter note, ten days til season 6! Are you excited yet? I'm fricken stoked. And terrified. All the spoilers and promos are not very encouraging in the BroMo department.

Anyways…

**Warnings:** Uhm…language, angst, schmoop, and weird…stuff. This chapter kinda ran away with me, I'm assuming because of the weird last few weeks I've been having. Don't (harshly) judge.

**Disclaimer:** I don't think it's going to be offensive, but just in case it is, I thought I'd put this up. I mean absolutely no disrespect to our soldiers. None. I have nothing but pride and gratitude for them. I know that doesn't make much sense now, but it will later.

* * *

**Gaslight  
3.**

Sam can't see anything beyond the icy gray eyes boring into his skull. They're so devoid of emotion, of _anything_, that he has to question if they're even human. But they are, he knows they are, and somehow that makes it more terrifying.

Sam's own eyes burn from staying open too long and from the wafting fumes of accelerant on his clothes. He wants to shut them, but he can't. It's in the Winchester rules: you always keep your eyes on the enemy at all times. If you lose sight, lose the concentration for the briefest moment, it can be over. Sam doesn't want it to be over, not like this.

Or maybe it would be fitting, maybe it's fate. A fire in his nursery, a fire in his apartment, both of which he escaped. Maybe all this time he was never supposed to. He'd be lying if he said it'd never crossed his mind before; the idea that his mom and Jess died because of him, and took his place in the chain of death. Maybe all of it, the case, the woods, Gates, maybe it all is supposed to happen. Maybe everything is just supposed to happen.

He doesn't know how he's thinking about this, or if he even is. It's churning somewhere in his sub-conscious, pounding against the terror that's on the surface, like a person trapped in a cellar. On the outside he's crying, pleading for Gates to stop, for his brother to come, for anything to get him out of the ropes. Underneath it all, there's something else. Something that he tries not to put too much thought into.

Gates finally reaches for the knob. Sam can feel his hot hand brush against his jeans as he grasps the smooth metal. There's just so much fear; he's never been so terrified in his life, and that's honestly saying something. And there's nothing he can do, no words he can say, no prayers he can recite, to save him. It's a feeling he's not used to, because he always has a way out and if he doesn't, Dean does. Now he has no outs, no answers, and he's scared. And he can't help but wonder, is this how everyone else dies? The people who aren't hunters, who don't get the luxury of dying quick and bloody, does everyone else feel this fear? Did mom? Did Jess?

Sam hears the knob creak and screech as it begins to turn. He's screaming, sobbing, uncaring of petty things like pride and strength when he's seconds away from meeting a painful, slow end. And all he can think is _not this way_, _not this way_,_ not this way_. Not like this.

But the knob turns, Sam can smell the gas from the stove before it ignites. The blue flame immediately catches on the kerosene, and the flames begin to eat and lick their way through cloth and flesh.

In his head, underneath his own agony and screams, he can hear Jess ask, "Why, Sam? Why?"

And then he realizes, maybe it always had to be this way.

* * *

"Sammy? Sam, can you hear me? C'mon dude, snap out of it."

Sam jolts as his eyelids pop open. Dean is inches away from him, with this brow furrowed in his classic, "you've really got me worried right now, and you better be ok, bitch," expression, and his eyes as wide as a frightened cat's.

"What?" Sam croaks, wincing as his throat burns.

"Christ, Sam," Dean groans as he settles back. Sam notices with a frown that Dean's crouched down between the two motel beds, and he was previously leaning into Sam's space.

"What're you doing? How long was I out?"

Dean rubs his hands over his face –Sam sees them tremble- and breathes before he continues, "A few hours; you pretty much zonked as soon as we walked in the room. You were screamin,' man, like full on wailing. I couldn't shake you out of it."

Oh.

Sam winces, embarrassment creeping up on him, "Just a dream."

Dean glares, "Sam, a dream is when you're skipping through lollipop land or parking with Jessica Alba. That was a nightmare, and," Dean sits back up to grab a hold of Sam's face, examining his siblings eyes, "I'm pretty sure you got high off that kerosene, man. Your pupils are blown."

Now that Dean mentions it, he is feeling rather weird…kinda floaty.

"Huh."

"Huh," Dean repeats, "You just gave me a friggin' heart attack, and all you have to say is 'huh'?"

"What do you want me to say?" Sam mumbles.

"What was it about?"

Sam recognizes that voice. It's the same voice that demanded to know whose ass he needed to kick when Sam came home with a bloody nose and a ripped shirt. It's the same voice that refused to let Sam face Bloody Mary, even if he eventually gave in anyways. Dean's on a quest for answers, because his little brother's hurting, and he's not going to stop until he gets them. He'll even play dirty if he has to, and Sam knows it. So Sam just sighs.

"What do you think it was about?"

"C'mon, don't do this shit right now. You and I both know that this time is different from any other time, it was…I mean, he…" Dean breaks off, frustrated, "Fuck, Sam, he tried to burn you alive. Don't try to tell me that you're not messed up right now, because I'm messed up right now."

Sam stares. Dean stares back.

"So what? Not like anything's gonna change it. It's done, it's over, we're both fine," Sam shrugs, "It was a nightmare. The fumes got to me is all, made it worse."

"Dammit, Sammy," Dean sighs as he rubs his forehead, "We're not doing that avoiding shit this time. I know I'm not the king of caring and sharing, but you can't bury this too. Not this time, man, please."

Sam doesn't answer for a long time, just stares at his hands, and Dean starts to think that he's lost this one. But then…

"You're right."

Dean sits on the edge of the other bed, waiting for Sam to continue.

"I am messed up about this, but, Jesus, Dean, I was just…I was so scared, you know? It was the first time that I really had no way out. And it was the first time that I really believed you wouldn't get there in time to bust me out. I really thought I was going to die. And it was fire, and all I could think of was mom and Jess, and how scared they had to have been. If they were anywhere near as terrified as I was…"

"Hey," Dean says softly as he knocks his boot against Sam's foot, "It's ok that you were freaked. There's no shame in that. I already told you that I was wigged too. It's just Winchesters and fire, man, it's an exception to the rules. Dad would understand too."

Sam nods and exhales, "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"This is the third fire I've escaped; do you think…do you think maybe I wasn't ever supposed to?"

Silence fills the room like smoke, heavy and unpredictable, before Dean responds, "That's what this is about, isn't it? You think you were supposed to die in Palo Alto. Or in Lawrence."

Sam doesn't answer but Dean knows. Dean always knows.

"Fuck that, Sam."

"Dean…"

"No! You listen to me," Dean says as he gets off the bed, crowding Sam's personal space, "What happened to mom and Jessica was bad, and I wish like hell it had never happened. I wish for it every friggin' day. But you know what? Shit happens. It just does. And you got out because dad put you in my arms in Lawrence, and because the Impala's radio fritzed outside of your apartment in Palo Alto. You got out this time because my gut instinct told me you were in that cabin. There is no fate, no destiny, that says you were supposed to die in any of those fires. Mom and Jess didn't take your place. Shit just happens, and it happens to us tenfold because we're Winchesters. That's all. Ok?"

Dean locks eyes with Sam, and doesn't give an inch until he sees the despair lessen in his little brother's eyes.

"Yeah, ok," Sam responds with a light smile.

Dean huffs, relieved that the message was received, "Good."

"And what do you mean, you didn't think I'd show? I always save your ass, bitch."

Sam launches a pillow at Dean's head, grinning when Dean lets out a squawk.

"Jerk."

* * *

**One week later.**

"See the paper, Sammy?" Dean asks as the smacks the newsprint on the table in front of Sam.

Sam scans it over, "They're prosecuting Gates for the other arson cases."

"Yep. Dude's as crazy as a fruitbat but I don't think even pleading insanity will keep this guy from prison. He killed a kid."

"Yeah," Sam replies, swallowing as his mouth dries, "they ever say what his deal is?"

"Well they don't, but I took the liberty of doing a little recon cause I knew you wouldn't."

Sam ignores that. He's doing better, but they both know that he's still doing everything he can to forget about what happened, including doing research on Gates.

"What's the story."

"Gates served time overseas, right? But for most of his term he was a POW, where he and three other soldiers, were repeatedly burned. When they were finally busted out, Gates was already messed up," Dean says before he takes a bite of his burger.

"Brainwashing?"

Dean shrugs, "Maybe. Or he could've just been monumentally messed up from the whole deal. Something that traumatizing does shit to you."

Sam frowns, "So it wasn't even his fault."

"Doesn't make it right. I don't care why he is the way that he is, or what happened to him; he tried to kill you and he's killed God only knows how many others," Dean states as he stares at Sam from across the table.

"I know, it's just…it's sad, you know? Makes it a little easier to forgive him, knowing that he was just a victim too," Sam says.

Dean narrows his eyes like he disagrees, but doesn't say anything. If that's what Sam needs to believe to help him get over the whole ordeal, then Dean isn't going to argue with it.

"Whatever, Francis," is what he says to avoid yet another chick flick moment, and then steals one of Sam's French fries.

"Hey!"

Dean just grins, making sure to show Sam the mushed up potato in his mouth. When Sam grimaces in disgust, he knows that things are going to be just fine.

* * *

A/N: I had a hard time ending this one so it's kinda meh, but overall, I'm fairly happy with how this came out. You? Let me know, and thanks for reading!


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